1x1 -- Sarish and Stormy

[stormy tom]

James watched as his words chipped their way at the master. He'd hit gold.
But he decided to leave it. He wanted to hear the story from the man himself, when he was ready. Prying would just break him down.
So he allowed the subject to be changed.
"I was," he replied, stressing the past tense. "Obviously I can't go back after what happened. If you were into hockey you'd have heard about me or seen me on TV. I even had my own nickname like Rocket Richard."
James patted his firm tummy. "I didn't get to look this good with protein shakes and pilates dvds, my my friend."
There was a mix of regret and reluctant acceptance in his voice. He wanted to go back but knew he couldn't. Then again, now he had a friend. Although he'd enjoyed his short burst of fame this was far more fulfilling. And he barely knew this guy. That was how desperate he was for friendship. It was refreshing to be mostly unknown here. He could start fresh. And to think he used to be a hot topic... Harbinger of Death Hunter. Highest number of goals for a rookie in hockey history.
They had forgotten him so easily. James wondered if his former team mates would remember him. And what about Striker? Striker probably had a comemorative poster for the day he removed James Hunter from the NHL for good.
"Give me a hockey stick and I could show you a few moves," James said proudly, filling his chest to underline just how big he was. But not as big as Striker... But no more skating. James knew he'd destroy his leg if he took to the ice again. There was no give. He'd wreck it worse than it already was.

[Sarish]

Sarish was infinitely grateful when James allowed the subject to be changed, relaxing a bit. I'll tell him soon, he promised himself. If he stays, I'll tell him. About the past... Maybe not. We'll see. If he stays," he decided. That would have to be good enough for now.

"If we had a tv up here," he said with a weak grin, "I might have heard of you. Though..." Sarish remembered the first traveler he had taught, a very passionate man who absolutely loved hockey. He had only stayed for two months, having fled down the mountainside when winter became a very real threat of trapping him at the monastery for months more. He hadn't come back yet, and Sarish privately thought that he probably wouldn't. The man couldn't quite come to the terms that he couldn't use his phone in the mountains-especially when he learned that he couldn't check the scores and stats of the league-and wasn't very happy. But his eyes had always lit up when Sarish inquired about hockey, who was more than willing to listen to his stories. The man had claimed that was connoisseur of the sport, and didn't have a favorite team, but he sure did like to rave about the "penguins." Did he every mention a 'James'? The monk thought back, concentrating hard as he tried to remember everything his charge had told him. There were quite a few players that the man had deemed the "best of the best." James James James... And then it struck him.

"James... James Hunter?"

(Ah this is so short, I'm sorry ._. I wasn't sure what else to write...)

[stormy tom]

(haha that's okay XD)

James froze. He hadn't heard his full name spoken out loud in a long time.
"T-that's me," he replied quietly. "The Harbinger of Death."
He had posters with his name and the Vancouver Canucks in bold, dramatic photos of his signature move: James could jump at peak momentum and turn 180°, landing and carrying on backwards, swinging around the goal and firing the puck into the corner.
"So you're not totally cut off from the outside world," James sighed. He wondered how much of his career that hockey fanatic had raved about. Of course that would have been before the accident... probably. The accident was little over a year ago. There would be plenty of time for a student to pop up for a couple of months, babble incessantly about his favourite sport, then trot away again.
James however had left the outside world behind. He hadn't brought his phone or a computer. Instead, his had his backpack, some spare clothes, and an old photograph of his team hoisting him and the Stanley Cup into the air. He'd kept it because of how happy he'd looked. There wasn't a single frowning face in the photo. Everyone was celebrating. They had won. And although none of them particularly liked their best player they were happy to celebrate the victory he had facilitated.
"What did he tell you? That I used to be able to shoot a puck into a space the size of a dinner plate from ten feet away? That I could skate as well backwards as I could forward? I bet he didn't tell you that I beat up one of my team mates in high school and that I fought the Montreal Canadians' goalie outside the rink at midnight after he told me I was a stuck up prick with the manners and charm of a goldfish." James' classic angry aura returned. There were so many things he wished he could change... at least had he been a nicer person he could feel as though what had happened had been unfair. Truthfully, he felt he'd deserved it, asked for it. But then again, had he been nicer Striker would never have attacked him like that.
Justice had been served. James felt the familiar fist in his stomach, twisting him harshly: you deserve this. You deserve this entirely.

[Sarish]

Sarish blinked at James' reaction to his last name, immediately making sure to proceed with caution. The last thing he wanted to do was upset him. The nickname surprised him further. I don't think my former charge said anything about that... Does he have it because he was a very talented player? I suppose I don't even begin to know enough to figure it out.

"Well, we are, technically. Anything that we hear about the rest of the world either comes from travelers or from other monks that live in Kathmandu who will visit occasionally," he said casually, watching James closely as he bitterly asked what the man had told him. "Not much, to be honest. He visited a long time ago. I think he mentioned that you were a 'rookie' at the time," he considered his next words for just a second, deciding against telling James that the man had been quite angry with him for giving one of the "penguins" a mild concussion when he had slammed the other player against the boards. "He was very impressed by your abilities, though I don't think he went into great detail. He knew you'd be a star player." Sarish admitted. He saw James' expression close off, reverting to the state he was in when the monk had first found him sprawled out on the ground. I don't blame him. I know how it feels to lose the ability to do what you love the most, or even something you're good at, or both. Not to mention that he must be well-known. Does anyone know that he's here? Any fans of his, or his teammates? Maybe his family members?

Sarish could take a pretty confident guess that James did not want to talk about what he was thinking with someone he'd met two days ago. Instead, he thought back on the Canadian's words, analyzing them rapidly. And there; he had his solution. "Here, follow me, please," he requested, striding around the outskirts of the training grounds and to the far side, where a rack of bo staffs stood, which was usually out there unless it was raining or snowing. The wood was often very temperamental in response to the weather. Most apprentices learned some martial arts form before picking up a bo staff, but there were, of course, a few exceptions. Some people were much more coordinated with the "glorified stick" than with their fists. Sarish was one of these people. He picked out a fairly long staff, making a quick calculation of the staff's height against James'. This will probably work. The monk then held out the weapon to James. "This is probably heavier than a hockey stick, but go ahead and test its weight," he suggested, his eyes flicking over the other staffs before deciding to wait and see James' reaction.

(Staffs? Staves? Other...? I'm not sure .-.)

[stormy tom]

James snorted. A star player alright... he'd been all over the newspapers on many occasions, breaking record after record. Those who hadn't met him, especially teenaged girls, were charmed by his handsome features and devilish grin. Interviews of what other players thought of him had rarely gone on air. Broadcasters and papers had gone mad when he'd had his accident, speculating over whether the rink would see him next game, next season, or next decade. News had finally gone out that the Harbinger wouldn't be pulling on his jersey every again, and then... nothing. He didn't matter anymore. He'd been replaced, and everyone had moved on.
Team mates, managers, reporters, fans, everyone. He'd had a total of two visits during his many weeks in the hospital. One from the whole team (although mostly out of obligation) to bring him some fruit and a signed hallmark card. And a second from his coach and a couple other players to confirm that he was indeed never coming back.

"I gave more than a few players concussions," he muttered under his breath. And a long list of people before that. He begrudgingly followed Sarish, his limp seemingly deepening as he sank into it. It was hypocritical of him to want to close in on himself after his little chat with the monk, but he couldn't help it. James just didn't know how to talk about anything personal or emotional.
He stared in confusion as he was led to what looked like a rack of sticks to him.
But when Sarish held one out to him and he took it, a familiar sensation travelled up his arm. The weight was no problem. He quickly found the balance point with his hand and spun it with strong fingers. Some light returned to his eyes. Now this was familiar. There was some uncharacteristic grace to James' movements as he tested the balance and weight of the staff in each hand one at a time. Oh yeah, he could work with this.
Both naturally and with a sprinkling of will power, James forgot the past and allowed himself to be pleased with the stick in his hand.
Some guy this Sarish dude is, he thought, gratitude swimming all in his face. The gesture would not go unappreciated. Maybe he really could get on here. It would be different learning footwork on ground instead of on ice, but he would learn. He was fixated on it.
And he had all the time in the world: nobody was coming. Nobody would look. He had disappeared from the world a year ago. Leaving the country would make no difference. His electricity and water would be cut, his car insurance would run out, but none of that mattered. There was no family to file missing reports, no friends to come knocking at his door when he didn't answer their calls. He's stopped making doctor's visits a while ago, and hadn't renewed his prescribed medication in months (they didn't seem to work anyway).
"You wanna give this a go?" James asked, wondering how naturally shooting a puck would become fighting.


(your guess is as good as mine XD)

[Sarish]

Sarish watched happily as James tested his staff, the Canadian's expression slowly brightening again as he seemed to realize that the stick wasn't too different from the ones used in hockey, though its shape was obviously quite different. That's good that he seems to like it... I wasn't sure if it would be too heavy or not correctly shaped. But he's handling it like a professional. I'll have my work cut out for me keeping up with him. He probably knows all of the proper wrist motions to control it, or in the very least has an idea. Sarish was a bit relieved. Hand-to-hand combat was not his strong suit, and though he definitely would not neglect that part of James' training, he was a lot more skilled with a bo staff.

While he'd much rather see what James could do with the staff, he decided it would only be fair to show him the proper way to handle it. He turned back to the rack, easily seeking out the one that he usually used, the darker wood easy to spot. This particular staff was specially made for him by the father of a young boy that he had taught for many months, as the boy had been very scatter-brained, impulsive, and hard to handle at the time. The father, a woodworker, had been so pleased when his son came back, respectful and calm, that he had made the staff to account for the monk's difficulty in handling some of the heavier woods used for most of the bo staffs, as he often strained his back when he trained for too long. This particular wood was lightweight but sturdy, making it very well equipped to face off against the other traditional staffs used at the monastery. Needless to say, Sarish was extremely grateful to the thoughtful man.

The master weighed the staff in his hand, giving it a experimental flip just in case-when he was a young boy someone had shaved off some of the wood on the weapon he had usually chose at the time as a prank, which threw off the balance of the whole thing and made it virtually useless-before settling it in his hands. "You'll have to find a grip that's comfortable for you, but it's usually standard practice to split the staff into thirds and place your hands so that each part of the wood is equally spaced," he demonstrated, holding the staff out in front of him. The training weapon was angled so that the end that was pointing towards James was at about chest level, while the other was down at his side just below his waist, the end of it about a foot off the ground. "Some people like to have their leading hand a bit lower, though," he mentioned, sliding his right his down a bit so there was more free space at the top of the staff. The Canadian was already gripping it correctly, his right palm facing away from the body and the left palm facing towards his body. I wonder if that is how hockey sticks are held? If so, then he shouldn't have much trouble getting used to it. "Go ahead and strike if you're ready," Sarish said, widening his stance defensively.

[stormy tom]

James watched Sarish take his position and grip, adjusting his as well. With his interesting skating tactics he'd often found holding the stick with one hand better so he could use his other arm as a sort of rudder, like a cheetah using its tail for balance and sudden directional changes.
His wrists were strong enough to wield a hockey stick with one hand. Well they had been. After the accident he'd tried to keep his arms as strong as they had been. He would find out if he had succeeded in a moment.
For now though, James would obey instruction. He placed his hands at the third marks. Then he struck.
Sarish's feet were the puck. He swept the staff, letting it slide down a little first so his top hand was near one end. Then he pulled back and returned his grip to where Sarish had suggested. Right, this wasn't a hockey stick. It was a weapon. Sort of a bladeless sword instead of a device for smacking a small object across ice.
He prepared himself for Sarish, stance firm but tipped as usual a little to the right as he kept his weight off his bad leg in an attempt to put as little strain on it as possible. Perhaps his leg was in more danger this way, from being hit with a bit stick. But James was confident that Sarish would not try to hurt him.
For a moment he was back in the game, fans cheering his anthem, light all over the rink.

[Sarish]

James had adjusted his position easily, obviously having a good idea of how to use the staff. I wonder how similar they are compared to hockey sticks... The hockey-obsessed traveler had tried to explain it to him at one point, but he remember not exactly understanding all of the finer points of using a hockey stick, though he had had a general idea. After all of these years, however, Sarish couldn't recall his explanation. It seems like the way they attack with their sticks were sort of the same idea? Though...They couldn't 'slash'? Most of the rules and penalties seemed to have slipped his mind.

Sarish hopped backwards as James' staff swung as his feet with impressive speed. He was not expecting such a low attack. "Good, James!" I guess it will be better if he uses the staff in some of the ways he's used to. It will make his moves more unpredictable.

Deciding that it would be no good to simply dodge and block attacks today, as you tended to have to be more offensive at all times when using a staff, Sarish shifted his position ever so slightly, making sure everything he did was visible so that James would have ample time to block. This was only their first training session, and while many masters chose to teach their apprentices the hard way, by beating them black and blue until they blocked something, Sarish didn't hold the same fondness for that technique. He slid his top hand down a bit, using his back hand to swing the staff in a downward arc, not close enough to attack James' person, but it would be certain to knock his staff out if his hands if he didn't block. He made sure that he didn't apply any of the usual force to it, just wanting to see how fast James' reaction time was.

[stormy tom]

James responded to each of Sarish's moves. The smaller man's stick was indeed smaller and lighter, but James found very quickly that these details hardly matter. It was the skill of the user that made him need to keep a tight grip on his staff at all times.
It really was a gentle practise, but James felt that Sarish could have easily taken him down if he'd wanted to. The little man was fast. But so was James, and he was in his comfort zone.
It was easy for him to lift or lower the staff, turn it one way or the other to absorb that blows thrown at him. He met Sarish's arc by lifting his own staff under it, and carrying on upward, hoping his weightier staff and bigger body would allow him to send the master's staff swinging upward again, which would leave hid body exposed.
None the less, James adjusted his grip and made a stab toward the smaller man's rib cage with one end of the staff. He didn't have the same control as Sarish did. Holding back strength wise could often make him sloppy at the same time.
His comfort with the staff meant he could put more focus into hiding his next move from showing in his eyes. James seemed to be responding with a certain amount of reflex but as the fight was slower he was forced to think a bit more about each block and blow.
"So you uh, get many apprentices?" James asked, feeling a little conversation was needed. Talking could often help keep the airways open depending on the type of cardio. He was referring specifically to Sarish but the question could be answered in general as well. He aimed a second jab at the shorter man's face. "How long have you been a master anyway? You can't be much older than me."
Sarish didn't look that old. Not nearly as old as the other masters anyway. He'd noticed some of the looks the other apprentice's gave Sarish and wondered if he was all that popular... so maybe it was fitting that he train and apprentice who was earning similar looks too.

[Sarish]

James was nearly matching his speed, handling the staff with ease. Use it like an extention of your arm, Sarish remembered being told when he had first started working with a bo staff. A weapon is heavy, bulky, it weighs you down. But your arm can be quick, light, a part of you that you know as well as the rest of your body. Treat a staff as such, and you will be successful.

Sarish's arm followed his stick as it was knocked high by James', using the momentum to roll the lightweight wood over his knuckles, spinning it front of him as he brought his arm down, effectively blocking the stab. "Good thinking, James, but next time you'll want to try and aim lower, the legs, usually. When my staff is high it'll be harder for me to block a strike below my waist." Sarish realized that James expression was steadily becoming more difficult to read, impressed that the man was focusing on two aspects of a fight at once. Usually he'd have to give a friendly reminder to his charge to keep their features schooled.

"It depends on the year; sometimes we have four new potential apprentices in a year, and sometimes we have none. I personally have never taken on an apprentice, though. I usually work with the visitors instead," he answered, watching James warily as he spoke. Most potential apprentices could choose who they wanted their master to be, though in a few special cases the master would be assigned. Nobody had chosen him yet nor had he been assigned. Gossip spread quickly from older apprentices to new ones, and nobody wanted to train under the 'crippled cheater'. Sarish eyes widened as James jabbed at his face, just barely jerking his head out of the way. "Nice James, nice."

He dropped his hands, swinging the staff around, aiming to tap James on his good leg. "26," he said, so focused that he it took him a moment to remember that he needed to give a little more context. "I'm 26. I became a master at 22," much to the rage of most of the monastery, he added in his mind. Most apprentices usually became masters around ages 28 to 35, though some take longer because they couldn't pass some of the aspects of the final examination. Usually the "summoning your Alter part," which was very, very difficult to summon the first time, and still required a lot of focus to pull off even on their hundredth time. Some monks never did.